5 Times Peter's Mental Illness Made Him Stumble
by losingmymindtonight
Summary: And The 1 Time He Refused To Falter / Mental illness does not discriminate. It doesn't give a damn if Peter Parker is Spider-Man. It takes and it takes and it takes. But there is hope. There is always hope.
1. Prologue

AN: Hello friends. Welcome to my therapy!

No, seriously. This entire story is basically me trying to work through some shit.

If you've read my other stuff, you're probably peripherally aware that I have social anxiety. I'm lucky, and it's moderate rather than severe, but it's something that permeates everything I do.

This is a prologue to set the scene. I wouldn't be surprised if MCU Peter actually has social anxiety, by the way. His stuttering and nervousness could be coming from a mild case. But, I assume that his anxiety is like mine (so moderate) in this fic.

This story will follow Peter as he sort of finds his way into a place where he learns to cope with his anxiety, depression, and PTSD.

To anyone reading this who may have one of the above disorders: I have firsthand experience with both anxiety and depression, but NOT with PTSD. I have done as much research as I can on what it's like, and I've seen it secondhand in one of my friends, but I'll never be able to truly understand. If I misrepresent something important, please let me know so I can change it.

I'm not going to lie to you. This story is going to get a little intense. Peter is going to hit rock bottom before he gets better. If mentions of untreated mental illness, panic attacks, depression, suicidal thoughts/actions, and PTSD are going to trigger you, please don't read this.

Okay, guys. I'm done being super intense and stuff. I know I made this sound super dark, but this is a story about recovery. And, since it's me we're talking about, there's definitely going to be some Peter&Tony being adorable.

Whenever things get dark, there is always a light. Peter is going to discover that. I hope that everyone reading this remembers that, too.

Love yourself, and stay safe.

WARNINGS: mentions of panic attacks, a child in distress, and untreated mental illness

* * *

"Fewer than 5% of people of with social anxiety disorder seek treatment in the year following initial onset and more than a third of people report symptoms for 10 or more years before seeking help."

-Anxiety and Depression Association of America

* * *

For as long as Peter could remember, people had scared him.

At first, he had thought that he was just shy. At least, that's what all his teachers said. He had countless memories of crying when his mom dropped him off at school, because he knew that the classroom would be filled with other children and he couldn't _stand it_. He could vaguely recall the moments where it would all be too much, and everything around him would fuzz out. The only sharp aspect of those incidents was the _fear._

It had been all-consuming. It had made his stomach flip and his chubby hands shake. But he just didn't have the words to tell people. He couldn't explain it to his teachers, or to his classmates, or to his parents. Every time he tried, the sentences wouldn't come and it had made him want to scream with frustration.

He remembered the tired look in his mother's eyes as she pried him, sobbing, out of the car on a rainy Monday. He remembered the disappointed chastisements from his kindergarten teacher as he disrupted the morning lessons. He remembered sitting in the bathroom, just six years old and so very _tired_ , trying to muffle his hiccups because people started staring when he cried and he _hated it._

He'd been too young to understand. Too young to realize that _this wasn't normal._ Too young to ask for help.

And then his parents had died, and there'd been even more things that he could never, _would_ never, comprehend.

He's been too young to understand why mommy couldn't kiss him goodnight. Too young to understand why daddy wasn't going to take him to playgroup on Saturday. Too young to understand why Aunt May and Uncle Ben looked so broken when he woke up from a nightmare and asked for his parents.

Too young to understand that mommy and daddy hadn't left because he had been bad. Too young to understand that they never wanted to go.

He'd stopped crying at school. When he cried, it made people sad. He had made mommy and daddy so sad that they had gone away. He didn't want Aunt May and Uncle Ben to leave, too. Not when they were all he had left.

A few years later, May had bought him a cheap, plastic Iron Man outfit, and Peter had discovered that wearing the mask made him feel powerful. He'd worn it _everywhere,_ including to the Stark Expo that his Uncle had managed to score the little family tickets to.

And then the robots had come. And when everyone else ran, Peter Parker stood his ground.

It was the first time in the little boy's life that he had been stronger than his fear.

His Aunt had taken the mask away after that, and Peter had cried and cried and cried because it made him realize that he wasn't Iron Man. He wasn't big and strong and brave. He was just Peter Parker, and Peter Parker lived every single moment of his young life dangling on the precipice of his terror.

It wasn't until Peter was thirteen that he realized what the paralyzing thoughts of _helpmehelpmeHELPME_ and _runrunrun_ actually were.

Uncle Ben used to take Peter to a local bookstore every Sunday, and he was allowed to buy any book he wanted. It was a tradition they had started during the first months after Peter came to live with them, and it had been nice. It had been simple. Peter liked simple. He still looked back on those days with a mix of tearing grief and loving warmth in his stomach.

On this specific Sunday, Peter had picked out an old Psychology textbook. Uncle Ben had just smiled, used to his nephew's eclectic choices, and bought the book without another word.

A few days later, and Peter stumbled across a section about anxiety disorders. As he was reading, he reached a section that made him stop and stare.

 _Social Anxiety Disorder:_

 _A disorder in which the sufferer experiences irrational fear and anxiety surrounding social interactions._

 _Sufferers often describe an intense fear of being judged. Everyday tasks, such as ordering at a restaurant or eating and drinking in front of others, can become impossible. Most chronic sufferers begin to exhibit symptoms in their early to mid-teens. However, there are correlations between children who experienced separation anxiety and struggled with bouts of anger or uncontrollable tantrums during school and the early stages of social anxiety._

Peter had looked at the page blankly, mind grappling with a sudden, crippling realization.

 _I have social anxiety._

As soon as he allowed himself the thought, he felt something _click_. Every symptom on the page aligned with what he'd been feeling for as long as he could remember.

 _I have social anxiety._

It explained why he felt so vulnerable in the school's crowded hallways when he didn't have a hand curled around Ned's jacket. It explained why, as much as he loved his middle school's Decathlon team, every practice made his heart pound painfully and his knees go weak. It explained why picking up the phone seemed just as terrifying as facing down a dragon.

 _I have social anxiety._

Peter never told Aunt May or Uncle Ben. They had enough to worry about, and Peter doubted they could afford to send him to a therapist anyway.

Months slid by, and Peter had found himself, quite suddenly, staring down the a life as a superhero. A few weeks after the spiderbite, Peter had realized that he hadn't needed to use his inhaler once and that his glasses were actually making his vision _worse_. Something hopeful had kindled inside him. The teenager had ran straight out of the apartment and into a crowded grocery store, expecting to feel nothing but a slight pang of hunger when he looked at the bakery section.

If his powers had healed his asthma and his astigmatism, why not his anxiety, too?

But as soon as he came jogging in and the first pair of eyes settled on his nerdy t-shirt, he felt that familiar rush of terror and his breathing picked up and he could feel static in his hands and his heart broke in two.

 _The bite fixed my body, but my mind is still a mess._

The first part of the suit Peter designed was the mask, and it was during his very first patrol that he realized something _wonderful_.

Spider-Man didn't have social anxiety.

Peter never felt more alive than when he was out in the suit. He had never realized how dizzyingly freeing it would feel to be out in the city streets and not have your hands tremble with fear.

Behind a mask, no one can see when you're afraid. Behind a mask, _there isn't any reason to be._

And, okay, Peter knew that it was a pretty unhealthy coping mechanism. He'd created a strange disconnect between himself and Spider-Man. It was as if the moment the mask slid over his face, he became someone else.

Like he said, unhealthy.

But it was _glorious._ When Spider-Man made sarcastic quips at bad guys and reassured frightened civilians, his voice never stuttered. When Spider-Man walked into a room, he didn't slouch to hide his face. When Spider-Man saved the day, he wasn't distracted from his pride by that lingering taste of fear.

Spider-Man was free.

But Peter Parker? Peter Parker was still just a prisoner in his own mind.

* * *

AN: If you think you may be suffering from an undiagnosed anxiety disorder, or any mental illness, please see your doctor or a therapist. It's not worth suffering in silence. Believe me.


	2. Dissociation

AN: Hey guys!

So… Peter dissociates in this. (Specifically, he depersonalizes). I actually self-learned the technique back in middle school as a way to handle my anxiety. It's not healthy. Don't do it.

A classic way to describe dissociation is that it's like floating really far above yourself, but I tend to feel more like I'm watching myself on a video screen? But I also feel like everything is happening in slow motion and there's a sheet of plastic between me and everyone else? And I feel trapped behind my own eyes? It's weird, y'all. If you've experienced it, you probably know what I'm on about.

WARNINGS: panic attacks, dissociation

* * *

"7% of the population may have suffered from a dissociative disorder at some time."

-Mental Health America

* * *

Mister Stark had invited Peter to a party.

Which, you know, sort of sucked.

He had tried to think of an excuse, but Tony had his entire schedule mapped out and probably hanging up on his freaking refrigerator so the man would _know_ if Peter made up some previous engagement.

So the teenager had accepted.

Peter didn't sleep the night before. Everytime he closed his eyes, his lungs would seize. On nights like these, it felt like Peter lost sight of himself. He _became_ anxiety. His entire identity dripped through his fingers until all he could be was a vessel for the fear.

By the time the sun rose, he felt strangely detached from his body. The panic was still there, nipping at his heels like an demonic puppy, but everything else felt distant. Peter leaned into the feeling, into the detached numbness. Anything was better than the paralyzing panic.

Happy arrived to pick him up at 4:00. The party started at 5:00. Peter felt like there was a countdown looming over him.

"So, kid," Happy said, glancing at the teenager with furrowed brows, "what's up?"

Oh, right. Peter hadn't said anything the entire car ride, and they were almost halfway to the Tower. "Oh, uh, nothing." The words felt strange. It was definitely his voice speaking, but Peter barely felt them form in his mouth. When he glanced down at his hand, it seemed too small. He flexed his fingers, and the movement looked alien. Was that really his hand?

"Yeah? You feeling okay? You're usually talking my ear off by now."

 _He knows. He knows you're weak. He hates you._

"Oh, yeah, I'm good."

"You nervous for tonight?"

 _I'm terrified. Help me. Help me. Please, help me._

"A little."

"You'll do fine. Don't worry about it."

Peter just nodded silently, and slid out of the car as soon as they pulled up in the Tower's garage.

"Good afternoon, Peter." F.R.I.D.A.Y. greeted as soon as he stepping into the elevator. "You're heart rate appears to be elevated. Shall I inform Mister Stark that you are in distress?"

 _He can't know. He'll think I'm weak. He'll hate me. I can't bear it if he hates me._

"I'm all good, F.R.I.D.A.Y.!" The smile felt strange. Distant. Like someone else was smiling for him. "Just excited for the party, y'know?"

The AI paused, and the numbness faded as the panic surged in. Then, she spoke. "I am taking you to Mister Stark's entertainment floor. Guests should start arriving soon." The relief was brief, and then he was slipping away again.

 _Away, away, away._

Peter's feet moved to walk as soon as the doors opened. He was functioning entirely on muscle memory. He was just a bystander. A passive observer to his own life.

"Hey, kiddo!" Tony smiled and waved. He was leaning against the bar with a glass of whiskey in his hand. He looked calm in a way Peter would never understand. "How was that Calculus test?"

Calculus test? Oh, yeah. He'd had a Calculus test yesterday, hadn't he?

"Oh. It was good. Fine. Yeah."

Tony's eyes narrowed. "C'mere for a second."

Before Peter could take another step, the elevator opened to reveal the party's first guests.

He let himself get swept away in the rush of people. Every introduction that should've made his breath catch instead left him feeling empty. He spoke, he moved, he laughed, but he wasn't _him._

He didn't like it. He wanted to panic. He wanted to be afraid. He wanted to _feel._

What if he could never find his way back? What if he spent the rest of his life watching himself live, locked behind his own eyes, without ever being able to make a sound?

Peter didn't know how long he'd floated before a strong arm caught his bicep and he was suddenly hauled into a sideroom. The noise from the party became muffled behind a closed door and Peter found himself staring into the worried eyes of Tony Stark.

"You okay, kid?"

 _No! Make it stop, Mister Stark. Please, make it stop._ "Yeah."

"No, you're not." A hand grabbed his chin, but Peter didn't feel it. Tony's stared into his eyes intently. "Do you have anxiety, Peter?"

 _Yes! Help me. Help me. Help me._ "No."

"You're lying again, aren't you?" The hand gripping his cheeks squeezed so hard that Peter felt a zing of pain and flinched back. It faded as quickly as it had come. "There you go. Peter, I've been holding you tight enough for it to hurt for this entire conversation."

Peter blinked.

"I think you're dissociating. I need you to focus. You're going to have to claw your way back to me, kiddo." Tony grabbed his right wrist, moving the teenager's arm so that his fingers were brushing his silk tie. "Think about your fingers. _Feel_ my tie. It's soft, isn't it? Think about it being soft, Peter."

He remembered soft things. His favorite blanket. One of Aunt's May's nice dresses. Mister Delmar's cat.

He closed his eyes, and focused on his fingertips. He moved them. They brushed against the smooth fabric of Tony's tie, and he _felt_ it.

His gripped it in his fist. Clung to it like it was a lifeline.

"Good, Peter. Now think about your feet. Feel the ground. It's solid, isn't it?"

It was. It was solid. Peter wiggled his toes. He felt the way they bumped against the top of his shoes.

Mister's Stark's hand was on his face. The callouses pressed against his cheeks. His mentor's grip was harsh enough to make his jaw ache. Peter flexed it, forehead creasing in discomfort, and the fingers softened but did not release.

"You're doing great, buddy. Move your left hand. Touch something."

Keeping his right hand wrapped firmly around his mentor's tie, he groped blindly with his left. His knuckles grazed against the wall. He dragged his fingers over the paint. He could feel the little bumps and creases.

He could feel Mister Stark's tie. It was soft. He could feel his feet in his shoes. His socks were too tight. He could feel the paint on the wall. It felt a little like chalk.

Peter snapped back to clarity with a gasp, and the panic crashed down on him just as quickly.

It didn't seem to surprise Mister Stark. Peter snapped his eyes open as he felt his mentor tug him to the floor.

"I-I-" _Runrunrun_ , "I-"

"It's okay, Peter. Just breathe. I'm going to talk to you. I just want you to focus on listening, alright? Just listen to my voice."

Peter gave a wheeze in response.

"I think you dissociated because you were trying to avoid a panic attack. That's why you're having one now. I need to you keep focusing so you don't do it again. I know you're scared, and I know you want it to stop, but you can't phase out like that. We're just going to ride this out, okay? I need you to let me know that you understand me."

Somehow, he managed to nod.

"Good. Your name is Peter Parker. My name is Tony Stark. You're in the Tower. There's no one else in this room except you and me. Just Tony and Peter. You go to Midtown School of Science and Technology. You're from Queens. Your Aunt is named May, and your Uncle was named Ben."

Slowly, the panic started to subside. Tony had one hand on his shoulder and the other on his cheek. His mentor gave Peter a gentle smile when he saw the teenager's eyes focus on his face. Peter glanced around the room, and nearly sobbed from relief when he realized that Tony hadn't been lying. They were alone.

No people. Just Peter and Tony.

"Nice to have you back, kiddo." Peter dragged his gaze back to his mentor's worried face. "To think, I threw this nice party and you decided to be a zombie for all of it."

Peter felt his heart rate spike at the mention of the party. He sucked in a tight breath. "I-I'm s-sorry."

"Whoa, Peter. Nothing to be sorry about. I was just messing around. Is that what set you off? The party?"

Tears sprung up in Peter's eyes. The aftermath of the panic attack was seeping into his bones. He was too tired to evade his mentor's questions.

Besides, Tony Stark could fix anything. Maybe he could fix Peter, too.

He slammed the back of his head against the wall in frustration. "Y-yes." When he went to do it again, his head hit Tony's palm rather than hard plaster.

His mentor was gripping his chin again, much looser this time, but still enough to confine. "Don't do that. You'll hurt yourself." Tony was squinting at him. "Was it the noise?"

"No."

"Are you claustrophobic?"

"No."

Realization dawned on his mentor's face. "Was it the people?"

"Y-yes."

"Peter," Tony tilted Peter's face so that he had no choice but to look into the billionaire's eyes, "do you have social anxiety?"

"Yes."

He let go of Peter with a curse. "Why didn't May _tell_ me that? Why isn't it in your medical records?"

Mister Stark had his medical records? "She doesn't know."

Tony blinked. "May doesn't know?"

"No. A-and it's not in my medical records because I-I've never been diagnosed." He didn't want to have this conversation. Not right now. Not when he just wanted to close his eyes and sleep.

Maybe not ever.

"Why not?"

"Can we… can we not do this?"

"This is serious, Peter. If you think I'm just going to ignore it, you're very, _very_ wrong."

"If I tell you, can I sleep?"  
Tony's eyes softened as the teenager blinked drowsily. "Absolutely."

Peter took a breath, and began.

"I-I figured it out when I was, like, thirteen. But I think I've had it for, well, for forever. A-and I know I need help, but Aunt May... therapists are expensive, y'know? And she worries so much a-already and, and she might take away Spider-Man, and I _need_ him, Mister Stark. I _need_ him."

He slumped back against the wall, exhausted. Tony sighed.

"I can pay for a therapist, Peter. And no one is taking Spider-Man away from you. I swear."

"I-I don't-I don't need ther-"

"Let me cut you off right there." His mentor looked about as tired as Peter felt. "Going to therapy does not make you weak. _I_ go to therapy, Peter."

The teenager blinked. "You do?"

"Yeah, I do. I've got some pretty bad anxiety myself, buddy. Don't you know that?"

"N-no."

"Well, I do. And I see a therapist. And I think you should, too."

Peter searched Tony's eyes before answering. "Okay."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

Tony patted his cheek gently. "Good. Now, c'mon. I need to tuck my little Spider-baby into bed. It's past his bedtime."

He let his mentor pull him to his feet and guide him towards the door before he blanched. "W-wait-"

"They're gone, kiddo. It's empty. Party's over."

"Oh." The teenager paused. "Is it that late?"

"Yeah, kiddo. Very late."

* * *

Peter would never know that it was only 7:00.

He would never know that Tony ordered Happy to get rid of everyone the moment he realized something was wrong with his kid.

He would never know that his mentor had brushed the hair out of his face the moment he'd fallen asleep.

He would never know that Tony only left his room once that entire night, to make a call to his therapist.

But what he didn't know wouldn't hurt him.

* * *

AN: My best friend can always tell when I'm starting to dissociate. Sometimes, she catches it before I do. And because Tony Stark is a SuperDad, I bet he would totally notice if something was off with his Spider-son.


	3. Drained

AN: I've been blown away by the positive reception this fic has gotten. I really only started it because I thought it might help me work through my own mental health shit, but it seems like a ton of people are relating to Peter's struggles.

I feel like I need to preface this chapter, and this whole fic, with the reminder that Peter is an unreliable narrator. That's the whole point. His thoughts don't reflect a healthy viewpoint. Therefore, his need to balance his mental illnesses without help from others IS NOT something I endorse. However, it IS a place I've been in before, and it's a very common feeling for people with any mental disorder, and especially social anxiety.

* * *

"Anxiety disorders are highly treatable, yet only 36.9% of those suffering receive treatment."

-Anxiety and Depression Association of America

* * *

Sometimes, Peter just got tired.

Everywhere he went, there were too many voices. They echoed and bounced and popped off the walls and pierced through him like shards of glass. And no matter how hard to tried to cage the thoughts, his mind wouldn't stop screaming that they were all talking about him. Even when he caught clear snippets of conversations that obviously had nothing to do with the nerdy kid slipping past, his mind twisted the phrases. Bastardized the words until they morphed into something they weren't.

It was exhausting, fighting a never ending battle within himself.

He'd been running non-stop all week. He'd had to go to dinner with May's boss the night before and had a group project for all of fifth period. By the time he got to Decathlon practice, he could feel himself splintering. His edges were peeling apart like the joints on a plastic toy. Every word, every interaction, made the fissures grow.

Every fibre of Peter's being had wanted to sprint out of the school when MJ dismissed them. The only thing that stopped him was the niggling thought that his eagerness to escape would draw attention to himself and then people would stare and that was the worst because he hated it when people stared.

When he stepped outside the school and saw the expensive Audi waiting on the curb, his heart sank.

 _Oh god. I have to face Tony._

Usually, his nerves made him sputter ridiculously whenever Happy picked him up. Today, however, Peter felt too drained to speak. He coughed and jerked his way through a stunted greeting before spending the rest of the drive buried in his phone screen, trying to forget.

By the time he got to the Tower, his hands were shaking. There was a glowing, persistent pang of _shitshitshitrunrunrun_ in his chest that flared with every thought. He didn't want to _do_ this. But he couldn't just cancel on Mister Stark. He _knew._ He'd seen Peter crumble at his party and he _knew._ Peter needed to convince him that it wasn't something for him to worry about. He needed to convince him that he was _fine._

At least, he told himself that. Peter tried to ignore the part of him that remembered his mentor's gentle hands and guiding words. Tried to ignore the part of him that wanted to tell Mister Stark that he was definitely, undeniably, 100% _not_ fine.

But Peter had gone a lifetime handling this by himself. He didn't need to run to Mister Stark with his tail between his legs. He had it covered.

When Happy pulled into the Tower's garage and Peter reached for the car's door handle, his trembling fingers missed. His fist made solid enough contact with the panelling for the noise to echo around the car, and he felt his entire body freeze.

 _Shit. Shit. Shit. Happy heard. Shit. Shit. Shit._

"You okay, kid?"

 _Nonononono. I can't do this right now._

"Y-yeah. I'm, um, I'm fine. Bye, Hap!"

 _Hap. You called him Hap. Why did you call him Hap? Stupidstupidstupid._

He got the door open on the second try, and scrambled into the private elevator in a rush that no doubt made him look like a massive fucking idiot.

F.R.I.D.A.Y. didn't greet him like she usually did, which was odd. Instead, the elevator brought directly him to Mister Stark's lab and opened without a single verbal appearance from the AI.

 _Maybe she hates me, too. God, you're such a fuck up that you managed to scare away an Artificial Intelligence, Parker. Great job._

The teeenager scanned his fingerprint against the access panel and slid silently into the lab. Maybe if he was lucky, Mister Stark would be so engrossed in a project that he wouldn't even notice he was there.

Unfortunately, the man wasn't even working. He was just sitting on one of the couches, watching Peter bumble his way into the room with his legs crossed casually across a coffee table. "Hey, kid."

This was the first time Peter had seen Mister Stark since the party, and he felt shame burn up his face. His mentor had put him to bed like a _baby_. He'd stayed with him through the night, too. Peter knew because when he'd woken up, the man had been fast asleep in a chair set up at his bedside. The teeenager had left in a rush, stumbling onto the New York streets before his mentor was even awake.

 _I can't believe you did that. I can't believe you did that. Ican'tbelieveyoudidthat._

"Hi, Mister Stark."

He was so fucking _tired._ He felt like a shell. So pathetic and so exhausted that even the anxiety was starting to evade him. All he wanted to do was curl up in some faraway place. Somewhere blessedly quiet and blessedly alone.

"C'mere, kid. I want to talk to you."

Peter tripped a little on his way to the couch. When he sat down, he felt relief rush through him. It was easier to be inconspicuous when he was sitting.

Tony looked him up and down before probing gently. "How was your day?"

"Oh, uh, it was good. Yeah. Good." What was he supposed to do with his hands? With his legs? Mister Stark looked so casual, like he'd taken a class in how to sit in a way that was simultaneously poised yet relaxed. He clenched his hands into fists before rapidly releasing them, praying that his mentor hadn't noticed the nervous twitch.

He must have, though, because the man sighed as he rubbed a stressed hand down his face. "You don't have to be afraid of me, Peter."

The words slipped out before he could stop them. "I'm afraid of everyone."

 _Shit._ He hadn't meant to say that.

His mentor looked sad. It was Peter's fault. _Yourfaultyourfaultyourfault._ "I know." Tony seemed to pick his next words carefully. "I need you to be honest with me, alright? Can you… can you do that?"

Peter nodded, although the gesture was admittedly tentative. Honesty meant dropping barriers. If he did that, people _saw._ He hated it when people saw. After everything Mister Stark had done for him, though, he could at least try.

"Do you dissociate a lot?"

The teenager thought back to the party with a wince. "Not like that."

"Okay." Mister Stark cocked his head, forehead creased in thought. "So, parties are going to be a thing we avoid for a while. That's fine. What else really overwhelms you?"

He wanted to know, so Peter wouldn't embarrass him again. That was fair. "Uh, crowds. Lots of people looking at me."

 _They're all talking about you. They all hate you. Your shirt is untucked and your jeans are frayed and they hate you._

"We can work on that." Tony tapped erratically at his knee. "Do you ramble because you're anxious?"  
"Y-yeah. I-I just talk and talk and talk and I sound so _stupid_ but I can't shut it off because the more anxious I get the more I talk and the more I talk the more anxious I get and I just can't-"

"Alright, kid. It's alright." Tony reached forward and gave Peter's shoulder a little squeeze. "I have an idea."

Peter blinked. "What is it?"

"Pepper's coming over for dinner tonight. You've met her a few times, right?" At Peter's shaky nod, Tony smiled. "She's nice. I want you to eat with us."

No. No. Peter couldn't _eat_ in front of someone. Eating was the worst. He _hated_ eating in front of people. But… but Mister Stark had such a hopeful look in his eyes and Peter didn't want to disappoint him. Not again. "Okay."

His mentor gave him a bright smile. "It'll be good. Pep and I will carry most of the conversation. You just hop in when you want. Capiche?"

"Y-yeah."

"Everything's gonna be fine, Peter. We're going to manage this, okay? We'll learn together. You don't have to this alone."

 _You don't have to do this alone._

He hoped that Mister Stark was right.

* * *

Pepper was everything Peter could never be.

She had an air of gentle confidence about her. There was always an edge to the way she moved, but she never felt callous or harsh. Beneath her professional exterior, she was kinder than anyone Peter had ever met. Her eyes always softened when she watched Tony and Peter together, and if she was seeing something no one else could.

She was just so _strong._ It was like she knew exactly who she was. Like her thoughts didn't play tricks with her. Like she had never looked at another person and felt _afraid_.

At the beginning of dinner, Pepper asked him about school, ignored the way his voice shook a little when he answered, and then redirected the conversation to Tony. Once in a while, one of the two adults would ask his opinion or aim a simple question his way, but otherwise they let him sit quietly and stare at his plate.

Tony had ordered fried rice from Peter's favorite takeout place. Peter tried to eat enough that he wouldn't seem rude, but he couldn't help the way every bite sent a thrum of tense panic through him. What if he held the fork wrong? What if his chewing brought their attention back to him? What if he choked and had to cough?

Somewhere near the end of the meal, when Peter's exhaustion was starting to creep up on him, his hand slipped. The side of his wrist caught his plate and spilled the rice all over his lap. The plate slid off the side and shattered on the floor. Peter felt a brief zing of pain as one of the shards flew up and pricked his arm, but he was too busy feeling every ounce of his bottled-up terror and shame spill into his chest to care.

The world blurred, and when he phased back in the room had devolved into frantic movement. Tony was kneeling in front of him, asking if he was alright, and Pepper was rushing into the kitchen to get a dustpan. Peter didn't move. He was frozen in place. Static raced through his hands and he could _feel_ the blood rush to his cheeks as he blushed.

To his horror, he realized he was crying.

"Easy, kid. It's no big deal." Tony was moving his hands away from his lap and brushing the rice off of his jeans. Still, the teenager didn't even twitch. "I, uh… it'll probably be easier if you stand up, alright?"

Tony pulled Peter to his feet gently and turned to Pepper, who was cleaning up the mess Peter had made because _you'resostupidyou'resostupidyou'resostupid_ , and murmured quickly. "I'm just gonna take him-"

"Go." She ordered, waving a hand dismissively. "I've got this."

They ended up in the workshop, sitting on the same couch they'd occupied just a few hours before. Peter was hiccuping violently now, shaking from both the sobs and the embarrassment. He wanted nothing more than to sink into the soft cushions and never see another living person again.

Tony, however, had a different idea. He disappeared for a moment and returned with a first aid kit. He sat next to Peter and took his arm in surprisingly tender hands. The cut from the shard wasn't bad, but it had smeared a fan of watery blood all over the inside of the teenager's forearm. Tony cleaned the drying blood away and sprayed some antiseptic on the tiny wound. When he finished, the tucked the teenager's appendage back against his side and regarded him silently for a few breaths.

"You wanna tell me what our little breakdown is about?"

"I-I'm s-so sorry, M-Mister St-Stark." _I'm such a fuck up._ "I b-broke y-your plate a-and-"

"Whoa, kid. No need to apologize about that. Accidents happen. I'm more concerned about why it made you go all waterworks on me."

"I… It's j-just t-too _much_."

"What is?"

Tony's voice was so steady. So dependable. Peter wanted to fall into it and let it smother all his thoughts until the world sang with silence. "S-sometimes I just… there-there's too many p-people and everything gets s-so _loud_ and it's so t-tiring that I can ba-barely even f-function and all I w-want is for it all to fu-fucking _stop_."

His mentor paused for a moment. "By loud, do you mean in your head?"

"Y-yes. T-too many people just… th-they just... "

"Drain you?"

"Yeah."

"So it's been a bad week, huh?"

"Yeah."

Tony sighed heavily. "Listen, kid. I'm-I'm not good at this shit, alright? I'm probably the last person on Earth who should be helping you. But for reasons I don't understand, this is where we're at. So, just… I'm gonna try, alright? But… but you've gotta tell me when it's a bad day. I wouldn't have made you do that dinner if I'd known you were feeling so shitty. Communication is gonna be super important in this. You got that?"

 _You embarrassed him. He's embarrassed of you._ "Okay."

"If you ever start to feel this bad again, you call me. I'm not joking, Parker. You call me and we'll do something to fix it."

"Okay."

"And you know what? We'll start even smaller. You said you're afraid of me, right?"

 _Why did you say that? Shitshitshit._ "I-it d-doesn't mean I d-don't like y-you, Mister St-Stark. I just-"

"Whoa, kiddo. I'm not worried about that. So, you're scared of me. That's fine. Do I scare you less than, say, Pepper? Or someone you don't know?"

"Yes."

"Perfect!" The billionaire clapped his hands together and shot Peter a cheerful smile that felt grossly inappropriate yet oddly reassuring. "Then we'll work on handling your anxiety with me first."

"How?"

"I've got some ideas. Right now, however, we're going to start with you getting some sleep. Something tells me you're done for tonight." Tony pulled Peter off the couch and herded him towards the elevator. "So, and I can't believe I'm saying this to you right now, go to your room, young man."

Peter giggled. He could feel something hot and slippery uncoil in his chest. "Yes, Sir."

Tony ruffled his hair as he gave the kid a gentle shove into the elevator. "Meet me down here when you wake up, kiddo. Sleep tight."

The doors closed, and Peter leaned heavily against the wall.

 _You don't have to do this alone._

* * *

"Welcome to Anxiety Club with Tony Stark."

"Anxiety Club?"

"There's two of us now, so it's a club."

Peter smiled. Something about Tony's nonchalant goofiness helped him relax. "Sure."

They were sitting on the floor in a corner of the lab. Tony had tossed a collection of blankets and pillows down to make it a little more comfortable. When Peter had asked why they didn't just sit on the couch, Tony had just told him that they needed a "more collaborative environment" and refused to elaborate.

The billionaire shot him a wink. "On the roster today: eating snacks, talking about our feelings, and learning our very first coping strategies."

Peter blinked. "You? Talking about your feelings?"

"Look at you!" Tony lobbed a pillow at Peter. The teenager wacked it aside effortlessly. "You insulted me. That's good. We're already making progress. Did a good night's sleep help any?"

"Oh, uh, yeah." Peter fiddled with the tassels on one of the pillows. "I guess."

"Good." Tony pulled a bag of chips from the nest of blankets and tossed them into Peter's lap. "Eat."

"Why?"

"We're trying to make progress, right? Eating in front of me is our exposure exercise for the day. Plus, you barely ate anything last night. So, food."

As soon as Peter swallowed his first mouthful of chips, Tony took a deep breath. Peter saw a flash of discomfort settle over his face before he wiped it away. "So… feelings. Let's talk about them."

"Like… what?"

"Tell me about people. What scares you?"

"I guess I just… I always think they're judging me. That they secretly hate me. And I know it's dumb, and ridiculous, but I just feel like I'm stuck in the cycle. In the end, those thoughts are always there. I can't outrun them."

Tony paused, schooling his expression into a surprisingly passive facade considering the hint of desperation lingering behind his next words. "Is that what scares you about _me_? You think that I'm judging you? That I hate you?"

Peter met his mentor's eyes with a shaky breath. "Yes."

The man cursed, grinding his knuckles into the floor. "I know I'm not the most… open person in the world, kiddo. But… but I swear, I don't hate you. Not even a tiny bit."

From Tony Stark, that was practically a love letter. "Thanks."

Tony shifted uncomfortably. He stated his next words with practiced caution. "I think we need to tell Aunt May."

"No."

" _Peter_ -"

"I-I _can't_ , Mister Stark. I just… I don't want her to think I'm…" Peter paused, wondering if he should voice his next words or not. "I don't want her to think I'm _broken_."

"You're _not_ broken, Peter." The intensity in Tony's voice made Peter's breath still in his lungs. "I don't want you to ever say that again. Now, repeat after me. I am _not_ broken."

"I am not broken." The teenager whispered, longing desperately for the phrase to feel true.

"Just keep saying it until you believe it, kiddo." There was an awkward silence while Mister Stark gathered his thoughts. "So, uh, what do you do now? When you have a panic attack, I mean."

"Wait it out?"

"Yeah. Bad plan." The billionaire held up two fingers. "Focus on two things."

"What?"

"When you're about to have a panic attack, focus on two things besides being afraid. Your brain can't focus on more than two things at once. At least, not fully. It'll help knock it out before it can even start."

"Is that what you do?"

Peter hadn't meant to ask. He felt a pang of guilt and shame as he saw his mentor's jaw tense. Then, the man forced his expression into an easy smile.

"Yeah, kiddo. That's what I do."

Peter stared at his lap for a minute, a question gnawing at his stomach. Tony waited patiently, obviously aware of the teenager's inner turmoil.

Finally, he spoke. The words were slow, as if he was preparing to yank them back inside his mouth at any moment.

"Do you ever stop being so afraid all the time?"

"It gets better."

"But does it ever _stop_?"

Peter stared desperately at his mentor, yearning for the man to give him a light to shoot for. To give him a promise of silence.

But all he saw in the man's eyes was sadness.

"If it ever does, I'll let you know."

* * *

AN: The moral of this chapter? DO NOT TRY TO PUSH YOURSELF INTO A SITUATION YOU'RE NOT READY FOR. Recovery takes time. To take back control, you WILL have to do some shit that's very outside of your comfort zone. However, it's super important that you push yourself only when you're in a good mindset. When you're drained like Peter was, you won't be doing anything productive. It'll just be harmful.

The technique for stopping a panic attack that Tony describes is the exact way I do it. It doesn't work for everyone, but it's a good place to start.


	4. PTSD

AN: So, May is Mental Health Awareness Month. In honor of that, here is a brand new chapter.

Thank you for all the support you've given this story. As you know, this is a very personal topic for me. Hearing that this story has actually helped people has made me so, so proud. If anything good can come out of my anxiety, then it's all been worth it.

* * *

"An estimated 8% of Americans − 24.4 million people − have PTSD at any given time. That is equal to the total population of Texas."

-PTSD United

* * *

Peter hated buildings.

Unfortunately for him, there were _a lot_ of buildings. And, as a human being who lived in New York City, he had to go inside them pretty routinely.

Everytime the teenager was locked between four walls and the sky disappeared behind a discolored ceiling, he felt like he had an itch that he couldn't even locate, let alone scratch. A tiny suggestion, persistent and promising, that the supports would collapse and the roof would crack and, within seconds, he would be back _there._

He hadn't particularly been trying to hide it from Tony, but he hadn't been going out of his way to tell the man about it, either. His mentor was already spending a _ton_ of time helping Peter work through his social anxiety. He didn't really want to burden the man with something as trivial as a little discomfort around buildings.

He could handle it.

At least, he thought he could.

Today, Tony had taken Peter to the mall. It was an exercise. The teenager didn't have to talk to a single person if he didn't want to. In fact, all they were going to do was walk to the bakery in the food court, buy a dozen cookies, and leave.

The plan went off without a hitch. Tony wore sunglasses and a baseball cap, and not a single person recognized him. Peter even jumped in to order the cookies, stilling his shaking hands with a deep breath and basking in the look of pride Tony shot him over the rim of his sunglasses as he interacted with the cashier. His mentor kept a steadying hand on his arm on the way back to the parking garage, and Peter was shamelessly relieved for it. The touch grounded him. When he felt eyes slide over him and his heart rate spike in response, he could focus on the firm pressure of Tony's fingers pressed against his bicep.

 _They aren't looking at you. They don't care. You're fine. You're fine. You're fine._

It wasn't until they stepped out of the elevator and into the parking garage that it all went to shit.

Nobody was around. Tony had purposefully parked at one of the top levels, which meant that there wasn't another car in sight. It had snowed the night before, and temperature had yet to rise above freezing. The chill in the air bit at Peter's face, and the teenager tugged his coat a little tighter around his chest. He could feel the itch morph into a whine as his eyes landed on the closest support column.

A cold sweat had broken out on the back of Peter's neck and he was just barely keeping a lid on his rising nervousness when one of the icicles fell.

It landed right beside them, and even Tony flinched back. Before Peter could rationalize the sudden impact, panic was clawing up his throat and blurring his vision. He heard a terrible, gasping wheeze and realized, a little belatedly, that it had come from _him._

He couldn't breathe. The dust was in his throat and his eyes and his mouth. And it was going to happen again. The roof was going to cave in and this time he was surely going to die. What were the odds of him surviving the falling rubble twice?

"Peter?" Tony's voice sounded strangely harsh and compact in the chaos of Peter's thoughts. "Shit. Are you having a panic attack?"

Peter locked eyes with the man and gasped, trying to shove all of his terror and _Tonypleasehelpmepleasepleaseplease_ into the gaze. The adrenaline rush had filled his entire body with icy pressure. It swelled through his head and his chest and his stomach. His hands trembled with the force and he swayed on his feet.

"Alright. Okay. So, panic attack. That's fine." The older man had both hands clasped over Peter's elbows, anchoring him in place. "You gotta communicate with me, buddy. What set it off? There-there aren't any people here. I-I don't understand."

 _Building. Building fall. The-the building. It-it's going to fall. Tony. Fall. Building. BuildingfallTonythebuildingisgoingtofall._

He tried to tell him, but the only sound that came out was a strangled version of the man's name. "T-Tony."

"I know. I know. What can I do, Peter? What do you need?"

 _Out. Get out. We need… we need to get out. Out._

"O-out."

"Out? Out of what?" Tony's forehead creased in confusion, and then smoothed as realization flickered in his eyes. "You need to get out? Out of the garage?"

Peter's next gasp was accompanied by a vigorous nod. Suddenly, Tony was hauling him towards the car and unceremoniously flinging him into the passenger's seat. His mentor buckled him in before rushing to the driver's side and gunning the car out of the parking space.

"Alright, Peter," the Audi whipped around the first turn, "we're going. Just hang in there."

Everything blurred together. Black spots swarmed across his vision. Peter curled in on himself, each desperate wheeze of his lungs only adding to the terror racing through his veins. He couldn't breathe. Had the building collapsed? Was he dying? He felt like he was dying. He _had_ to be dying.

"Kid? _Kid._ We're out, Peter. We're out."

He opened his eyes. Tony had parked the car out front of a dingy gas station. When he looked to his right, Peter could see the parking garage just a block or so away.

And it was still standing. And he was not in it.

He was safe. Tony got him out. So… so why couldn't he stop panicking?

"G-god."

Tony was twisted in his seat, hip pressed against the backrest and legs curled up against the gear shift. If it was anybody else, the position would be undignified. But since it was Tony, it looked strangely self-assured. "Easy. Talk to me, Peter. Tell me five things that you know."

"W-what?"

"Five things you know. They can be really simple. Random, even. Go."

Peter groped at his thoughts, and fell through the fog of terror. Nothing concrete seemed within reach. Just fear. "M-my name is Peter."

"Good. Four more."

Things that Peter knows. What are things that Peter knows? "D-DNA stands for deo-deoxyribonucleic-acid."

Tony smiled at that. "Nerd. Three left."

"A s-synonymn of afraid is scared."

"Two."

"You own Stark Industries, but Miss Potts is the CEO because she's awesome."

A fond expression swept across his mentor's face. "That's right. One more."

"I don't like buildings."

For a moment, Peter thought that Tony was going to press. Then, he nodded, quick and concise, and ignored the comment. "Now give me four things you can see."

"You?" Peter's gaze darted around. "Uh, the dashboard? And, uh, my backpack. A gas pump."

"Three things you can feel."

Peter's fingers brushed against the seat. "Leather? M-my jeans." Without thinking, he flailed a hand out and grabbed Tony's fingers. "Your hand."

"Two things you can hear."

"The engine." He could hear the pistons working underneath the bonnet. "And traffic."

"One thing you can small."

"Hot dogs?" At Tony's look of surprise, he gestured at the gas station's store. "They're making them inside."

Tony moved his hand so that he was gripping Peter's wrist, calloused fingers checking the teenager's rapidly quieting pulse. "You feeling better?"

All of a sudden, Peter's entire body was overcome with crushing exhaustion. He slouched against the seat, unclenching muscles he didn't even realize he had tensed. "Yeah."

"Okay." The billionaire eased the car into gear and pulled back onto the road. "Okay."

Peter didn't even try to hide his surprise. "You're not going to ask me about it?"

"Oh, we're talking about it." Tony flicked the sports car into the left land and accelerated past a few slower cars. The engine snarled and spat underneath them. "I'm just waiting until we're back at the Tower to bring it up. You just chill out until then, okay?"

The teenager groaned. "I'd really like to take a nap."

"Well, with this traffic, you've got about twenty minutes. By all means, feel free to konk out."

"That's not what I meant."

"I'm aware. Trust me, kid, I know what I'm doing. We're going to have a health-giving Anxiety Club session, and then you're going to take a nice, long siesta. But if you wanna get a head start on that last part before we get to the Tower, be my guest."

Peter sighed. He didn't really want to talk about it, but he _also_ knew that Tony really _did_ know what he was doing. Maybe telling him about the Vulture and the night of Homecoming wouldn't be so bad. Wasn't Tony always telling him that he needed to reach out when he was struggling? Maybe he should try it. Hell, it had worked before.

He dropped his head against the window and smothered a smile when Tony moved his free hand to rest against Peter's knee, using this thumb to draw light patterns against the teenager's jeans. The comforting rhythm lulled him into a light doze.

They found themselves in the Tower's garage far too quickly for Peter's liking, and the teenager stumbled behind his mentor as the man led the way down to the lab. The corner was still filled with blankets and pillows from their last Anxiety Club meeting, and Tony pushed Peter towards the layout before disappearing into the elevator again.

As soon as he was alone, the teenager began to jitter nervously. He was chewing on his thumb, back pressed against the wall, when his mentor reappeared.

Tony tossed something onto the teenager's lap. "Here."

Peter looked down and saw a coloring book and pack of Crayola colored pencils sitting on his thighs. "Uh, what?"

His mentor plopped down in front of him and brandished a workbook of his own. He pulled out a blue pencil, flipped to a random page, and began filling in the petal of a flower. "Go on, Peter. I even gave you the Star Wars one. Get to it."

Slowly, Peter opened the book and picked out a shade of brown for Han Solo's jacket. "What are we doing?"

"Coloring."

"And _why_ are we doing it?"

"Because you need to do something with your hands while we talk about this." Tony didn't look up from his flower. "Now, what triggered that attack? There wasn't anyone around besides me. Did I do it?"

"No."

"Then what?"

Peter paused. He set the brown pencil aside and chose a yellow for C-3PO. "I don't like buildings."

"So you said. Why?"

"It's probably because the Vulture dropped one on me."

Tony started so suddenly that he jerked a stray line of purple across the crisp page. "I'm sorry. _What_?"

"The Vulture. He dropped a building on me, the night of Homecoming. I thought I was going to die."

He felt strangely detached, talking about it. Like it happened to another person. Still, he noticed a slight tremor run through his hand that made the paper shake.

"And so, you're, uh, afraid of that happening again, I suppose?"

Peter finished C-3PO and moved on to R2-D2. "I guess."

"Okay. So, we've got people and buildings. That's not too bad."

Peter laughed, harsh and cool. "I'm such a fucking loser. People and buildings. I'm afraid of _people and buildings._ "

"I'm afraid of snow."

Peter looked away from his coloring to stare at his mentor. "What?"

Tony nodded pointedly at Peter's paper until the teenager went back to work. Only then did he elaborate. "Snow. The cold. I almost froze to death during the Mandarin scare. You were probably old enough to remember that, right? And then Siberia. So, uh, yeah. I'm afraid of the snow. And space. Aliens. Taking showers. Being alone. Do you think I'm a loser, Peter?"

"No."

"There you have it."

Peter finished his page and showed it to Tony, who grunted in appreciation and let the teenager see his own project before gesturing for Peter to start on a second sheet.

They worked in silence for a long, long time. The only break in the monotony was when one of the pair showed the other a finished page. Otherwise, they didn't look up from their books. It was strangely comforting. Peter could feel the anxiety leaking out of him.

He was on his fifth page, an image of Luke Skywalker dueling Darth Vader, when he rested his cheek in his palm and let his eyes slip shit. The pencil rolled out of the teenager's slack hand and clattered to the ground.

A few moments later, Tony set his book down and slid over. "Alright, buddy. Looks like it's siesta time, huh?"

Peter just hummed in response. Tony pushed Peter gently until the teenager slumped over sideways amidst the array of plush pillows. Peter felt the man toss a fluffy throw blanket over his body before returning to his coloring.

He drifted off to the steady sound of a pencil scratching paper and his mentor humming a Metallica song.

* * *

AN: As I said before, I do not have any personal experience with PTSD. This chapter is dedicated to my good friend, who struggles with PTSD on a daily basis and was completely unflinching when I asked her to talk to me about it for this story. She is one of the bravest people I know.


	5. Depression

AN: So the tone changes quite a lot in this chapter, and there's a reason for it. I tried to convey how dramatically my mindstate switches when I enter a depressive episode. My thoughts often feel like they're spiraling back on each other and everything get very disconnected and repetitive and introspective. If I did my job well, you'll feel that.

I'm just going to come out and admit that I'm _very_ nervous about this chapter. I talk about things in here that I haven't really talked about to anyone. I also touch on topics that are really personal for me. However, there was something super therapeutic about getting it all down on paper.

Also: this is just your daily reminder that I love you and that you're all the best. Please take care of yourselves. Take a moment to list five good things about yourself. Do it for me, your #1 fan.

WARNINGS: suicidal thoughts and actions, sort of a suicide attempt (not really, but be aware of it), depression, self harm

* * *

"Among individuals reporting a lifetime history of suicide attempts, over 70% had an anxiety disorder."

-The Relationship Between Anxiety Disorders and Suicide Attempts: Findings from the National Epidemiologic Survey on Alcohol and Related Conditions

* * *

Children will play tag even if no one ever teaches them the game. You see, there are things that you are born knowing. Things that are coded into your DNA. Things that are written in your stars.

Things you cannot escape. The inevitability of fate.

These are the things that Peter Parker has known since before he knew anything else:

He is lonely, but he is never alone. The thoughts in his head will chase him until his metaphorical legs give out. There is no rest for people like him, for people who have never tasted silence.

He is lonely, but he is never alone. He will never be alone.

He can try to speak but the words will get caged behind teeth. He speaks and speaks and speaks and no one hears.

Well, everyone hears but no one hears.

(He can speak and speak and speak but the words are never right. They do not fit. They do not sing. They are always the wrong words.)

Some people explode when they break. Peter Parker breaks, but he never explodes. Explosions are bright and loud and if he is bright and loud then people will look and when people look, people see, and there are things inside him that people cannot see. The echoes of his own insignificance. The damning fact that he will never be enough.

So Peter Parker implodes. He collapses inward like a dying star and the vacuum that has become the apex of his being swallows the screams.

Peter Parker knows only two emotions: fear and the absence of fear. He is like a computer. He functions on zeros or ones. When he is not fear, he is apathy. The numbness crawls between his ribcage and runs frigid fingers down his lungs. He cannot breathe, and he cannot fight.

They tell him to smother the fear until it flickers into nothingness. But Peter Parker is fear. If he is not afraid, what is he?

Without the fear, he is just a shell. An empty, hollow shell.

He is tired. He does not know if that is anxiety or depression or Peter Parker talking. Is there even a difference? He does not know. He's never known. They are tangled together like a forgotten headphone jack. He cannot find the ends. He cannot unravel the mess.

He does not know. He has never known.

But these are the things that Peter Parker knows. These are his unshakeable destinies. His future in the stars.

He knows that he wants quiet. He knows that silence is a sound he has never known. He knows that there is only one path to knowing.

One step. One fall. One ending.

Peter Parker stands on the roof, but Peter Parker never jumps. Depression says he should, but anxiety is afraid of heights. Peter Parker sits between the two, the rope to their tug-o-war.

He tips forward. He tips back. He takes in a lungful of frigid air and revels in the way it burns his lungs.

For the first time in his life, Peter Parker wishes he was afraid.

But he isn't. Instead, he doesn't feel anything at all.

He wonders if he is still alive. Can you be alive if you can't feel? He was out here last night. Did he jump? Was he already dead?

Was he ever even alive in the first place?

Peter Parker stands on the edge of the roof, thinking about the things he knows and the things he does not, with the toes of his sneakers just off the ledge, and wonders what it would feel like to jump.

What would it be like to snuff yourself out? Is it free will, or a predetermined fate? Is it something he knows, or something he does not?

Metal boots clang onto the roof behind him. They are rushed, off kilter.

"Peter!"

His mentor sounds afraid. That is something Peter Parker knows. He understands fear. Fear and the absence of anything at all. These are things he knows.

"Hi, Mister Stark."

"Hey, kid. What're you doing up there?"

Thinking about the things I know. Wondering about the things I don't. If I know that I don't know something, is that something that I know?

"Thinking."

"Yeah? You maybe wanna try doing your thinking a little farther from the edge, kiddo?"

"Not really."

"Okay, then."

The Iron Man suit materializes beside him. A metal gauntlet grabs his arm and holds on tight.

There are things that Peter Parker knows. He knows that he has social anxiety. He knows that he is depressed. He knows that there is only one path to silence.

But he also knows that Tony Stark will never let him fall.

The quiet has to wait.

"So…" His mentor has flipped up the faceplate, "you gonna jump?"

Peter hesitates. Tony doesn't breathe.

"No." The roof is cold. "Not tonight."

"Okay." There is relief in Mister Stark's voice. That is something Peter does not know. There is also fear. That is something Peter knows very well. "Okay. That's good, Peter. That's really good. We can work with that."

He looks back over the ledge. Hears the way Mister Stark's breath catches in his throat as he tips his weight towards the drop. The fingers on his arm tighten.

They stand. To Tony, it is silent. To Peter, it is nothing of the sort.

(There is silence with a step. A path to the end. But Tony Stark is here and Tony Stark will never let Peter Parker fall.)

"Do you want to die, Peter?"

Someone else would have danced around the question, but Tony Stark does not. Hesitation is fatal. This is something Tony Stark knows. It is in his DNA. The blip within his stars.

"Sometimes."

"Can you tell me why? Do you know?"

Peter just wants silence. Peter wants to feel. Peter wants to forget the taste of fear.

"I want it to be quiet." Peter looks at Tony. "Make it quiet, Mister Stark. Please. Please make it quiet."

The suit melts away, and Tony pulls Peter away from the ledge. He does not resist.

(Tony Stark is here. Tony Stark will never let Peter Parker fall. This is something both men know. It is in their DNA.)

Tony is hugging Peter, but it is more than a hug. Tony Stark is trying to make the world silent.

It doesn't work. The thoughts do not stop. There is only one path to silence. One step to the end.

But for the first time in a long time, Peter Parker feels.

(Peter Parker loves Tony Stark. This is something he knows. This is something he feels.)

"We'll find you silence, Peter." The vibrations from his mentor's voice rumble through Peter's chest. They remind him that he's alive. "We will. I promise."

Peter Parker stands on a freezing roof.

He is warm.

* * *

"Do you want to die today?"

This is the first thing Tony Stark says to Peter Parker, everytime he sees him.

"Maybe."

"One to ten?"

"A six. Maybe a seven."

"Okay. Okay. We can do a seven."

* * *

Peter Parker makes a list of things he knows.

1\. My name is Peter Parker.

2\. I have social anxiety.

3\. Sometimes, I want to die.

4\. I have not died yet.

5\. Tony Stark will never let me fall.

6\. I want it to be quiet.

7\. I want it to be quiet.

8\. I want it to be quiet.

9\. I want it to be quiet.

10\. I want it to be quiet.

* * *

One day, Peter wonders if he can still bleed.

This is a bad day. He hadn't seen Mister Stark, but he has the conversation in his head anyway.

("Do you want to die today?"

"Yes."

"One to ten?"

"Ten.")

Peter does not go to the roof. There is no point. Peter Parker does not jump. If he did, Tony Stark would catch him.

(Is this a salvation or a sin?)

Peter Parker is not sure he is alive. He wants to know. If he knows, he can add it to his list.

People bleed. If he is alive, he will bleed.

Won't he?

He scratches at his stomach until his nails are caked with dead skin and sticky blood.

Peter Parker bleeds. Peter Parker is alive.

(He tests it again. And again. And again.)

* * *

He tells Tony about the blood on a good day.

"Do you want to die today?"

"Not really."

"One to ten?"

"Three?"

His mentor smiles. "That's really good, Peter. Do you want pizza for dinner?"

"Sure." Tony Stark will never let Peter Parker fall. "I bleed so I'm alive, right?"

The car jerks into a parking lot.

"You're bleeding?"

Peter lifts up his shirt. He chest is red.

"What the fuck, Peter?" Tony touches his chest. His stomach. Runs fingers down his spine. He feels the torn skin and shudders. "Did you do this to yourself?"

"I needed to know. There are things I know, Tony. I made a list. I need more of them."

"And you needed to know if you could bleed, Peter? Holy shit. Of course you bleed."

They are never the right words. Peter Parker can never say the right words. "I'm sorry."

"No. No, don't apologize. Just… don't do this again. If you need to know something, ask me. Okay?"

"Okay."

* * *

11\. There are things that I will never know.

* * *

Two days after Tony sees the blood, he picks Peter up from school and sits him down on the couch in his lab and kneels in front of him. His face is full of an emotion that Peter cannot recognize. Then again, Peter only knows two.

"You need to see a psychiatrist, Peter. I've talked to May, and I have someone lined up. It's really, really important that you do this."

Peter blinks. "Because I'm broken?"

He phrases it as a question, but this is something Peter Parker knows. He knows that he is broken. He needs to add it to his list.

"No, Peter. No." Tony's hands hover his stomach, his shoulders, his face, as if the man cannot decide where he needs to touch. What he needs to fix. "Remember what we talked about? You're not broken. You just… you just need a little help."

Tony Stark will never let Peter Parker fall. "You've been helping me."

"And I'm gonna keep helping you, buddy. That's never going to change. But… but some of this is a little beyond me. And that's why there's professionals. People trained to deal with this stuff."

"I want it to be quiet."

"They can help you with that."

"No." Peter says, and his voice is the strongest it has been in a long, long time. Tony flinches back. "No. No one can help with that."

Peter Parker implodes. He feels fear and the absence of fear all at once. Zeros and ones. It does not make sense, but that does not stop it.

It does not matter what Peter Parker knows. The things that he does not will still swallow him up in the end.

"Oh, Peter."

"I don't want to change." Always the wrong words. He speaks and speaks and speaks. "I don't want them to take the fear. I thought I did, but I don't. I am fear. If I'm not fear then I'm nothing. Do you understand? I can't be nothing. I don't want to be absence. I don't like it when I'm absence."

Thewrongwordsthewrongwordsthewrongwords.

Tony's palm lies flat against Peter's cheek. "Listen to me, Peter. They aren't going to change you. Your anxiety… there isn't a cure for that, okay? God, I can't believe I'm telling you that to comfort you, but here we are. You'll always be a little afraid. And, buddy, that's okay. We're just… we're just going to learn to deal with it a bit better, alright? No one is going to change you."

Peter pauses. "Would it… would it be better if I changed?"

"No, Peter. I don't want you to change. I want you… I want you to always be you. This isn't about becoming something else. It's… it's about learning how to be you. Your anxiety? Your depression? None of that is you. It's about finding who you are outside of those things."

"Like… untangling the me from the other stuff?"

They are the wrong words, (they always are), but Tony understands them anyway because Tony always understands. Because Tony Stark will never let Peter Parker fall. "Exactly, Peter."

"Okay."

"Yeah? Okay? You mean that, buddy?"

Peter looks at Tony. He looks sad. He looks afraid. He looks like his entire being might shatter into oblivion if Peter does not choose his next words very, very carefully.

He sees this, but his mouth does not care. His mouth only knows how to say the wrong words. "What are you afraid of?"

Tony flinches back. His mouth purses. "What do you mean?"

"You're afraid. Of what?"

His mentor seems torn, as if he is unsure of whether to pluck his answer from the pools of fact or fiction. "I've been afraid ever since I found you on that roof, kiddo."

"Why?"

"Because I'm afraid of what you're going to do. Something… something's not right with you, buddy. It hasn't been for a while. Can you tell?"

Peter thinks. He runs through his list. "My thoughts are big."

Tony is being surprisingly patient. Peter knows his comments don't make sense, and yet his mentor is trying to navigate them all the same. "Too big?"

"No. Not too big. Just big. Different. Wide. Vast, maybe? I don't think little, anymore. I just think big."

"You're having a hard time focusing on the moment?"  
Tony takes his words and makes them right. "Yes. I'm… above."

"I… I think I understand."

"I want it to be quiet."

His mentor makes a small, keening noise. "God, Peter. I know, buddy. I know."

Peter curls into himself. I implode. Some people explode but I do not. "I don't like this. I'm trapped."

"You're not trapped."

Tony's running a hand up and down Peter's spine. Up and down. Up and down. Zeros and ones. Computers. Fear and the absence of fear. The absence of anything at all.

"I am. I am. Everything is circles and I can't untangle it. I don't like circles, Mister Stark."

"Then we'll change everything into squares. And if you get sick of squares, we'll do triangles. And if you get sick of every shape in existence, we'll make you a brand new one. Okay?"

"Okay."

His mentor's hand slides to rest against the back of Peter's neck. He squeezes. Once. Twice. Zeros. Ones. "I'm going to make you an appointment for tomorrow morning."

"Okay."

"Don't worry about school, by the way. I'll get you an excuse."

"Okay."

"You mean a lot to me, buddy."

Tony Stark will never let me fall.

* * *

AN: This is based off of my specific experience with depression. It's a very personalized disease, and mine is unique in the fact that it's routed in my anxiety. If I'm effectively treating and handling my anxiety, my depression handles itself. I know a lot of people who aren't lucky like that.

I know Peter's thought process and dialogue is very strange here, but I actually took some of it directly from my old journals and one of my closest friend's memory of how I acted when I was (briefly, thank god) suicidal. She dug up our old text messages and the lines "...not too big. Just big. Different. Wide. Vast, maybe? I don't think little, anymore. I just think big..." is a very real thing I sent her once.

Thank you so much for all your support and love. You guys are the best.


	6. Side Effects

AN: Hey guys. This chapter is pretty intense, just like the last one, so just be warned. I go into some pretty brutal details about suicidal thoughts and the side effects of an anti-depressant.

Also, technically, Peter seeing Tony's psychiatrist is a huge conflict of interests and no decent healthcare professional would be down with it. However, I feel like there's probably a shortage of people qualified to deal with, you know, SUPERHERO mental health so we're just gonna roll with it.

Somebody mentioned that they'd like to see a sequel to this fic written in Tony's POV, and the concept is really compelling to me. It would be interesting to delve into how Tony feels as he tries to guide Peter through this craziness. Would anyone want to read that? If so, I really want to write it.

WARNINGS: anti-depressant side effects, vomiting, suicidal thoughts, panic attacks

* * *

"Moore and Mattison found that nearly 17 percent of adults in the U.S. reported filling at least one prescription for a psychiatric drug in 2013."

-Scientific American

* * *

Peter sees Tony's psychiatrist. Her name is Doctor Mary Leyden.

Mister Stark comes in with him for the first session. Peter is too anxious to do it on his own. Neither his mentor nor Doctor Leyden seem to mind.

He expects her to interrogate him. Instead, she just smiles warmly as they push through a round of painfully awkward introductions. Afterwards, she gestures for Peter and Tony to sit and points to a Jenga tower resting on the table.

"I thought the three of us could play a quick game. How does that sound, boys?"

Peter blinks. That… wasn't what he was expecting. "Sure."

"I'll go first." Doctor Leyden pulls out the first log and reads a question off of it. "What's your favorite animal? Well, that's definitely a dog. I have three at home. Your turn, Mister Stark."

If Tony is at all uncomfortable with the childishness of the game, he doesn't show it. Instead, he just selects his own block and answers the question. "What's your favorite candy?" He shrugs and sets the log aside. "Twizzlers. The red kind. Go, kid."

Peter's question makes him blush instantly. "Who is your role model?" He glances shyly at his mentor before waving in his general direction. "He's right there."

Tony's face softens and he bumps Peter's knee with the back of his hand. Nothing else needs to be said.

They play the game without incident for a while. In fact, Peter manages to avoid the really deep questions until they're nearing the end.

"What do you want most in the entire world?" Peter's hands shake a little as he grips the block. "I-I-"

He looks to Tony for direction, but the man just gestures towards Doctor Leyden silently.

Peter's voice wobbles along with his vision. He can feel anxiety push fingers up his throat. "I want it to be quiet."

Doctor Leyden crosses her legs and leans back in her seat as if they weren't discussing anything more interesting than the weather. 'And what do you mean by that, Peter?"

"My thoughts are loud and they're circles and I don't want them to do that anymore. I want them to be quiet."

"Well, that seems like a pretty rational thing to wish for." She starts looking for her next piece. "It's my turn now, right?"

* * *

After that first session, everyone insists that Peter goes into therapy alone. Doctor Leyden explains to him the necessity of not using his mentor or aunt as emotional crutches and Tony and May try to tell him that he needs to talk about his feelings without fear of their judgement.

All of it seems like bullshit to the teenager, but he doesn't protest.

"I need you to understand that these sessions are completely confidential, but if I believe you are a danger to yourself or others, I will have to inform Mister Stark and your aunt."

"I understand."

Doctor Leyden fiddles with her pen before asking the next question in a gentle voice. "Do you think about suicide, Peter?"

"Sometimes."

"Tony tells me that you two have created a system."

"Yeah."

"Can you tell me about it?"

"He asks me if I want to die, and then I answer. Then he asks me to give it a number, and I do."

"A number?"

"On a scale of one to ten. One means it's a really good day, and ten means it's a really bad day."

"How often do you have really good days?"

"Not often."

"How about really bad days?"

"They happen more often than really good days, I guess. Sometimes I stand on my roof, but I never jump."

"And why not?"

"Because of the things I know. I have a list."

"And what's on your list, Peter?"

"Lots of things."

"And which of those things stops you from jumping?"

"Tony Stark will never let me fall. It's number five."

"I see."

* * *

By the end of that session, he is diagnosed with social anxiety disorder, post-traumatic stress disorder, and clinical depression. It is a long list of very scary words, but Tony sits him down and tells him about _his_ long list of very scary words, and Peter feels better.

* * *

"Do you feel like your anxiety is invalid, Peter?"

"Sometimes."

"And why is that?"

"Because everyone gets nervous around people. It just seems stupid that I can't handle it like everyone else." The teenager shrugs. "I'm too sensitive, I guess."

Doctor Leyden shakes her head. "I'm not entirely sure that's accurate, Peter. You see, when other people meet someone new, they get nervous. It's like… the moment right before you jump off of a rope swing at the lake. You're scared, but you're also excited, because you're with all your friends and the sun is warm and you're having fun, right?"

"I can't swim."

He is trying to be difficult, but Doctor Leyden doesn't rise to the bait. She just laughs a little and shrugs, completely unaffected. "Okay, then. It's like when you're Spider-Man. I've seen videos of you. You jump from some pretty impressive heights when you're webbing around the city. When you're falling, don't you feel that rush of excitement tinged with a little bit of fear? You know what I'm talking about, right?"

"Yeah. I mean, I guess."

"Good. You see, that's what other people feel when they're in a social setting. A little thrill, maybe a tingle of fear, and then it goes away. But you work differently. When you meet someone new, your brain interprets the situation as an imminent threat on your life. It equates a social interaction to, say, being attacked by a saber-toothed tiger. It fills your body up with adrenaline so you can run away. So you can survive."

"My body sounds stupid."

"Not stupid. Just different."

"Then different is stupid."

"Do you think Mister Stark is stupid?"

Peter's entire being recoils at the concept. "No."

"His IQ is in the top 1% of people on the planet. That means he's different. If you really want to generalize that statement, then you have to include him, too."

There is a pause while Peter's brain whirls. "You're not playing fair."

"I'm here to help you, Peter. Sometimes, that doesn't mean playing fair."

Peter likes her.

* * *

Doctor Leyden brings Mister Stark and May into the room during their seventh session.

"I'd like to discuss something with you and Peter, Mrs. Parker. Is it alright if Tony stays? I know you said you wanted him involved in this process, but I wanted to be sure before we continue."

"Call me May. And yes, I want him here. Please."

"Of course." Doctor Leyden glances down at her clipboard before looking at May gently. "I'd like to try Peter on an antidepressant called Venlafaxine. It's proven to help with social phobia, depression, and certain symptoms of PTSD."

May flounders. Tony takes up the slack. "You think medication is necessary?"

"I do."

May finds her voice. "He's just… he's so young."

"You're right, May. He _is_ young. That's precisely why it's so important to ensure that we give Peter every tool he needs to cope with his mental health now, rather than later. Don't you agree?"

It occurs to Peter that Doctor Leyden is very good with words. They seem to arrange themselves perfectly at her whim. For Doctor Leyden, they are always the right words.

But for Peter, they are not. For Peter, they are always wrong.

 _Circles. Circles and circles and circles. Always the wrong words. Always the same words. Always come back to this. Circles and circles and circles._

May wrings her hands nervously in her lap, but relents. "Yes. Yes, of course. You're right."

Tony's voice is quiet, and yet it commands the room. It always does. "Are there side effects?"

"Unfortunately, yes. It's difficult to find an antidepressant that doesn't have at least a few possibly unpleasant side effects." Doctor Leyden changes her attention to Peter, now. He feels Tony's hand come to rest on his kneecap. A reminder that he is there. A reminder that Peter does not have to face this fight alone. A reminder that Tony Stark will never let Peter Parker fall. "The most likely side effect you might experience is drowsiness. For some people, this fades after a few weeks. For others, it doesn't. We'll have to play it by ear. I'll give you, your aunt, and Mister Stark each a list of the possible side effects so you can watch for them, alright?"

"Okay."

She looks between May and Tony. "Since Peter is still a teenager, there is a heightened risk of suicidal behavior during the first few weeks of taking the drug. Someone needs to be with him consistently during that danger zone. Is that possible?"

May looks at Tony helplessly. "My shifts. I-I can't-"

His mentor steps in without hesitation. "We'll handle it."

* * *

Doctor Leyden places him on temporary homebound. It's strange, not going to school, but it's also one of the greatest reliefs of Peter's life.

He takes his first dose of his anti-depressant in the morning, with breakfast. May is working, so he knocks it back with orange juice from the fridge in the Tower and ends up watching Ancient Aliens with Tony Stark's arm slung casually over his shoulders.

Peter of two years ago would have been squealing with excitement. Peter of now is terrifyingly numb.

They're two episodes in when he starts to feel shitty.

"M-Mister Stark?"

His mentor's entire body jerks in his direction. "Yeah?"

"I'm, uh, I'm not feeling great."

"How?"

Peter's stomach is cramping and he keeps swallowing down mouthfuls of sticky saliva. His eyelids are weirdly heavy and he feels… detached. Absent in a way that's different than his zeros and ones. Suddenly, there's a two. It feels like he's wavering on the edge of a system-wide failure. This new number doesn't compute. It doesn't _fit_.

"Kinda spacey. Think I might puke."

Tony has a bowl in his lap before Peter can even blink.

"Did you have that ready?"

His mentor gives him a pained smile. "Nausea is one of the most common side effects."

"Great."

Peter makes it thirty more seconds before the first round of vomit races up his throat.

He spends his next few hours heaving until his abs ache and his throat burns. It's like his body is reeling against the medication. Peter wonders if anxiety and depression know that he is trying to kill them. If they are revolting. Is this a war? If so, what happens if he loses? Will they smother him, just like he's trying to smother them?

He doesn't want to be choked into nothingness.

That is not the silence he needs.

Mister Stark only leaves his side to empty and clean the bowl. He is somehow always back to catch the teenager's next bout of nausea, like he understands Peter's stomach more than Peter understands Peter's stomach. His mentor's hands trail up and down Peter's spine, occasionally tugging through his sweaty curls or massaging the back of his neck. The man's gentle murmurs of encouragement become the backdrop to Peter's misery.

"Just hang in there, bud. It'll pass. We'll get through it. We'll get through it all."

By the time Peter's stomach finally settles, he is exhausted. He does not know if it is because of depression or the persistent vomiting or the anti-depressants. All he knows is that Tony practically carries him to the bathroom, washes the crusty vomit and snot off of his face, and tucks him into bed while continuing his litany of comforts.

"There ya go, kiddie. Told you it'd pass. Now you can have a nice nap while I catch up on some paperwork and when you wake up we can play Uno. How's that sound, buddy?"

Peter knows he should answer, but he's too tired and spacey to try. He thinks he hums a little, but he isn't really sure.

Tony's hand starts carding through Peter's curls. "I'll take that as a yes."

 _Yes. Yes and no. Zeros and ones. Circles. It always comes back to this._

"Mister Stark?"

"What do you need, Pete?"

"When will it be over?"

"Soon, bud. Really soon."

Peter really wishes he believed him.

* * *

Peter can hear Tony's phone call with Doctor Leyden from his bedroom.

"I know it's only been two days, but he's not doing well."

"How so?"

"He's just so… apathetic. He's asleep more than he's awake. Hell, this morning I dragged him out of bed and shoved breakfast down his throat just so I could give him the exact drug that's causing all this shit in the first place. He's passed out in his bed right now. I'm supposed to give him back to his aunt this evening and she's going to accuse me of giving her a zombie rather than a child."

"We just need to give it time. It's not unheard of for teenagers to have reactions like this when they first start anti-depressants. And, putting that aside, a lot of what you're describing could just be symptoms of his depression directly."

"Are you sure the dose isn't too high?"

" _Tony_ ," Peter is briefly startled by the first name until he remembers that Doctor Leyden is also Mister Stark's psychiatrist, "we ran multiple tests against his blood with about five different SHIELD specialists. This is the dose he needs with his metabolism."

"It's just so much."

"He's enhanced, Tony. It _has_ to be a lot."

"I know. I'm just…"

"You're afraid that you're making the wrong choices for him. I know you've been struggling with Peter looking up to you as a father figure, especially considering your negative associations with parenthood because of Howard. But, Tony, this is necessary. You're doing the right thing for your kid. I promise."

"Hey, I thought I was talking to Peter's shrink right now?"

"I'm multitasking. Is Peter showing any signs of being suicidal?"

"He's _been_ suicidal."

"More so than usual."

"No. Frankly, Mary, I don't think he has the _energy_ to kill himself."

"That's not entirely a bad thing at this point in the treatment."

"You can't be serious."

"Go sit with him, Tony. Let him sleep if that's all he can do, but engage him if you can. Just be there for him. Let me know if anything changes. I'll see you two tomorrow."

There is defeat in Tony's voice when he responds. "Yeah. Alright."

If he didn't feel so subdued, Peter might have felt guilty.

Tony slipped into his room a few minutes later, footsteps faltering and voice hesitant. "You awake, buddy?"

"Yeah."

"Cool." Peter hears his mentor shuffle around the room before the bed sinks with his weight. "Sit up for me."

Peter's entire body protests the movement, but he pushes the comforter away from his chin and wiggles until he's sitting partially upright, propped up by a large stack of pillows. Tony is watching him with a smile that is half fond and half sad. The man wordlessly hands Peter a Wii controller.

Peter yawns, rubbing at his eyes blearily. "We playing something?"

"Yep."

The idea of trying to wrestle his drugged-up reflexes through a game of MarioKart is exhausting. "What game?"

"I Spy Spooky Mansion."

Oh. Not MarioKart, then. "You own that?"

"Pepper likes the I Spy stuff. Thought you might like something a little tamer than usual today."

Peter knows that this is his cue to feel gratitude. Fondness. Love. If he digs enough, he can find the memory of these feelings. A whispered suggestion that he's feeling them now, too. He clings to the faint echo as Tony starts the game.

Numbness is not meant to hurt, but Peter Parker knows that it does. He knows that it hurts more than anything else there is.

* * *

Two weeks after starting Venlafaxine, Peter breaks.

Tony is staying with him in his apartment until May gets back from her overnight shift, but he is sitting on the couch in the living room and Peter is in his bed, so it is just Peter, anxiety, and depression all tangled up on the bottom bunk.

His comforter is too warm and yet he is so cold. He can taste sweat on his lips but he can also feel his insides splintering and cracking with frost. Peter Parker knows that there is no winter breeze that is as frigid as this. There is no cold like the cold that crawls out from inside your own ribcage.

 _Ribcage. Ribcage. Ribcage. Why do they call it a ribcage? What needs the cage? Are we trying to trap the cold? If so, I think my locks are broken. Or is it Peter Parker that needs to be confined? Am I the monster? Am I the deadweight, sinking down our ship?_

 _The bow fills with icy water as the wood gives way. I am the Titanic and anxiety is the iceberg. Depression is the water. Anxiety starts the spiral but it is depression that will finish me off. It is depression that will still my lungs and close my eyes and turns my fingertips blue._

 _It is depression that will kill me._

 _(or will I do that by myself?)_

His ears ring with the thoughts. He wants them to stop. He'd do anything to make them stop. He is locked up. He is a monster, shackled with chains and bolts and barbed wire strings.

 _Locked behind a ribcage._

Unforgiving clarity shocks through his mind and snarls through his limbs.

 _I want to die._

He has thought this thought before. But this time, the thinking of the thought is different. It settles simply against his psyche. It is the only concept there. The rest of his being is a barren field of blessed nothingness.

For a moment, it is almost silent.

There is true silence waiting for him. It is so close. He can taste it. The absolute absence of sound. Not bad absence. Good absence. The absence he wants.

All he has to do is go to the roof.

All he has to do is fall.

 _Fall. Fall. Fall._

And then the terror bleeds in.

He shoves away the blankets and stumbles out of his room, the afterimage from his alarm clock's bright display of 1:58 am blurring against his retinas and the aftershocks of his internal weakness shaking his knees, and nearly collides with his mentor as the man wanders out of the kitchen.

"Peter?" Tony lunges to catch the teenager as he crumples, because _Tony Stark will never let me fall. How could I be so stupid? Tony Stark will never let Peter Parker fall. The list. Thelistthelistthelist._

"I want to die." Peter clings to Tony's collar as hot tears burned down his cheeks. When he tries to gasp in a breath, he chokes on the snot dripping down the back of his throat. "I want to die. I can't stop it. I want to die but I don't want to want to die."

He does not understand how he can be crying so fiercely while floating in absence. He does not feel and yet he feels so much. He is detached. He is afraid. He is a fault line. The tectonic plates are colliding him into an earthquake. There is only destruction from here.

He is breaking. He can feel his pieces splintering. He tries to rate it on the Richter scale but he only knows zeros and ones.

MJ once told him that they were all made of stardust. Every human being is a symphony of a million little suns. A beautiful anthology of cosmic wreckage.

 _I am made up of the echoes of a thousand broken stars. I am a landfill composed of their broken parts. My very atoms were created in the forge of fire and death._

 _I was always meant to self-destruct._

Tony's hand threads through Peter's curls. His mentor is tapping a staccato rhythm against the teenager's ribcage. _Ribcageribcageribcage. Why do I need the cage?_ He can feel the beats from Tony's fingertips pulse through his lungs and out through his veins.

He becomes the rhythm. It consumes him. The fault line stills. The earthquake falters.

Tony Stark can make stardust toy with tranquility.

"I'm here, Peter. I'm not going to let you hurt yourself. You did good, buddy."

They are sitting on the floor, now. Peter's knees are drawn up against Tony's stomach in a way that cannot be comfortable for the billionaire, but he does not flinch. He just keeps tapping.

 _Taptaptap. Tap. Taptaptap. Tap. Taptaptap. Tap._

Peter burps on a sob and tastes bile. He swallows it down with a shudder. "I w-was g-gonna d-do it. I was g-gonna do it. _God_ , I w-was ac-actually gonna d-do it."

"But you didn't. You _didn't_. You came to me. I'm so proud of you, Peter. I'm so, so proud of you." _Taptaptap. Tap._ "We're going to fix this." _Taptaptap. Tap._ "I'm going to call Doctor Leyden and we're going to throw a massive farewell party for your Venlafaxine and find something else." _Taptaptap. Tap._ "Something better. Okay, buddy?"

Peter nods against Tony's chest and closes his eyes. He pushes away the throbbing in his stomach and the vomit in his throat and the screaming in his head and lets his mentor's steady rhythm fill every dusty nook and cranny inside him. His bones and limbs and eyelids grow heavy with its weight.

Every thought dissipates. Anxiety and depression retreat somewhere far away. He can still feel them, lurking at the periphery of his mind, but their chatter is warbled by distance.

Peter Parker does not find silence. But he finds simplicity.

He decides that it is almost the same thing.

 _Taptaptap. Tap. Taptaptap. Tap. Taptaptap. Tap._

* * *

AN: Because I know someone is going to point it out, I'm going to do it for you.

I'm writing this story to be real. And the reality is, sometimes finding the right anti-depressant or anxiety med is a really shitty process. Am I trying to scare people away from seeking treatment or shit on medicating mental illness? Absolutely not. For quite a lot of people, medication is the only way for them to live a healthy, fulfilling life. And you know what? That's 100% okay.

Peter's reaction (aka: mine) is also very, very rare. I mean, we comprise about 2% of people who take anti-depressants. And even then, switching meds can solve the problem pretty quickly. It's actually been shown that anti-depressants can increase the risk of suicide in CHILDREN AND TEENS. There is almost no data showing that they increase suicidal behavior in anyone over 25. Basically, Peter and I just got a really shitty end of the deal.

Also, THIS IS, IN NO WAY, ME ATTEMPTING TO SHIT ON VENLAFAXINE. I'm sure it's wonderful for some people. The only reason I picked on that specific med is because I've watched someone very close to me go through some pretty brutal side effects when they were taking it and therefore felt like I could represent them faithfully. I've also had a pretty shit experience with an anti-anxiety med myself, but I literally forgot what it was so, uh, that was a no go. However, I did base Peter's reaction off of my own experience as well.

Do I think Peter's psychiatrist would prescribe something like Venlafaxine first thing rather than, say, Zoloft or Prozac? Nope. Did I do it anyway? Yep.

Let's just finish with this: different meds work for different people. It's important to communicate with your doctors while you're trying to identify the best treatment for you. If you're experiencing side effects that are screwing with your life, talk to them. They exist to help you, and so do your meds. If they're making your life worse, they're not doing their job. Change them. Keep trying different options until you find the one that works for you. Don't give up.


	7. Snakes and Birds

AN: Me, deleting and rewriting parts of this chapter over and over again: they're gonna think I'm crazy they're gonna think I'm crazy THEY'RE GOING TO THINK I'M FUCKING CRAZY WHY AM I POSTING THIS?

Please know that your comments make my day. I read and adore each and every one of them.

* * *

"When you're falling in a forest, and there's nobody around,  
do you ever really crash, or even make a sound?  
Did I even make a sound?  
Did I even make a sound?  
It's like I never made a sound.  
Will I ever make a sound?"

Waving Through a Window / Dear Evan Hansen

* * *

Recovery comes slowly.

You have to drag yourself back into the light. It is not glamorous. It is not romantic. It is bloodied hands and a battered soul. It is tear tracks on cheeks and bruises on knuckles. It is setbacks and handholds that tremble with your weight.

Recovery comes slowly, but it _does_ come.

And it comes to Peter Parker, too.

* * *

There are moments where it gets worse before it gets better.

Depression is always considered synonymous with sadness, but Peter Parker knows that this is not true. Depression is not sadness. Depression is _emptiness_. It is being hollowed out and left to rot. It is reaching into darkness and grasping nothing but air.

You see, Peter Parker knows only two emotions. He functions on the simplicity of zeros and ones. The robotic sanctity of fear and the absence of that fear.

It takes a month of Prozac and a particularly heavy therapy session for his coding to begin to rearrange.

And in the middle of a sentence, Peter Parker remembers that emotions are a spectrum. They are not switches on a circuit board. They are not black and white. They are not zeros and ones.

They are more than fear and absence.

And so the first emotion Peter Parker feels is not joy. It is _sadness_.

Crushing, overwhelming sadness.

He begins to cry so hysterically in the middle of the session that Doctor Leyden has the receptionist fetch Mister Stark from the waiting room. The man's suave exterior falters at the sight of Peter, curled around a pillow, hiccupping painfully as violent sobs shake his thin shoulders. Peter can just barely hear him have a hasty exchange with Doctor Leyden before he plops onto the couch beside the teenager and tugs him into his arms.

His mentor doesn't say anything. He just cradles Peter against his chest and hums a random tune until his sobs fizzle out.

The sadness does not leave with the tears. He feels weighed down with it, like there's a storm-blown ocean crashing through every facet of being. He is soaked and freezing and his knees tremble with the weight of each thundering wave, but he feels so _alive_.

Peter's face is still buried in Tony's chest when Doctor Leyden addresses him.

"Can you talk to us, Peter? What upset you?"

He is not upset. He is sad, but he is not upset. The ocean has fostered a flame. It defies all logic, but it is there all the same. The spark glimmers against the smothering vastness of his misery. He grasps at the fire and it hums in his hand. He realizes that this is hope. _Hope_. Because if he can be sad, he can be happy too.

If you have an off, you can have an on. If you have a zero, there is the chance of a one.

"God, I'm sad." He pushes his face into Tony's shirt and feels his forehead press against his collarbone. The hope is shining over the stormy froth of his sea, making sparks dance along the waves. And, despite the overwhelming weight of the ocean's assault, Peter _laughs_. "I'm actually sad. I'm _so_ sad."

Tony's voice is hesitant. There is a waver there, and Peter can tell that the situation is unnerving him. "Have you not been sad this whole time?"

"No." Peter pulls his face away from his mentor's chest to meet his gaze. "I'm sad, Mister Stark."

There is a lost, terrified look in Tony's eyes that tells Peter that the man hasn't grasped just how wonderful this realization is yet. "I'm really sorry, buddy."

"No. No, no, _no_ , Mister Stark. Don't you understand? I'm _sad_. I'm not afraid. I'm not absent. I'm _sad_."

Tony's eyes widen as Peter's meaning sinks in. He understands. Peter knew he would, eventually, because Tony Stark always understands Peter Parker. Tony Stark will never let him fall. "That's amazing, kiddo. But how about we work on our next emotion being a good one, huh?"

Peter likes the sound of that.

* * *

Every other day, Tony picks Peter up from school or his apartment and drives him to therapy.

May comes, sometimes, but she's usually working. Peter tries to tell Mister Stark that he can take the subway to the office, but the just man shrugs it off.

And so Tony Stark waits patiently in a therapist's office three to four times a week, every week, without fail.

Peter leaves his most recent session with a spring in his step. He spots his mentor in the closest chair to Doctor Leyden's room. The tiny gesture of protectiveness has become familiar, and yet it still makes the apathy and terror and sadness recede. More beach, less wave.

"Hey, Mister Stark?" Tony's gaze fixates on him instantly, StarkPhone forgotten in his lap. "Guess what?"

The billionaire gives the receptionist a parting wave as he gets to his feet and guides the teenager towards the door. "What, Peter?"

"Do you know that the acronym for social anxiety disorder is S-A-D? It literally spells SAD. And I have SAD, so I'm sad. Isn't that funny?"

It is a crude, hastily composed joke. And maybe making puns about your mental disorder isn't the healthiest thing in the universe, but it is Peter's first joke since the rooftop, so Tony Stark laughs.

"Yeah, buddy. That _is_ kind of funny."

Peter laughs back. A flicker of mirth curls in his stomach at the way Tony's eyes light up at the sound.

 _If I can laugh, it has no power. If I'm laughing, anxiety and depression are losing._

Tony's thumb rubs Peter's arm as they walk towards the car. "Was it a good session, buddy?"

"Yeah. Can we get ice cream?"

"Of course. That little place by Kent Street?"

"Yes, please."

* * *

"I need to set something on fire."

Tony looks up from his workbench slowly. "Interesting proposition. What, exactly?"

"My list."

"The list of the things you know?" His mentor regards him carefully for a moment as Peter nods. "Why?"

"Because I don't need it."

"And why is that?"

"Because I know what I know. I don't need a list to tell me that. And… and because it's okay to not know things, too. It's okay to accept that you don't know. I don't know what people think about me. That's something I _can't_ know. And… and I need to learn that that's okay."

"That's very mature of you, Peter."

The teenager shrugs, hands shoved deep in the pockets of his jeans. He is shifting nervously from foot to foot.

Tony moves away and returns with a blowtorch and a metal bucket. He offers the items to Peter but pauses before relinquishing his hold entirely. "You don't have to do this."

"I know. But I want to. I don't need it anymore."

He drops the list in the bucket, starts the fire, and watches it burn.

 _Tony Stark will never let me fall. I do not need a list to know this, because these are not the things I know. These are the things I feel._

* * *

"What does your anxiety look like, Peter?"

He'd never thought about that before. "I… I don't really know."

"Where is it in your body? Can you show me?"

He points to his chest. "In my lungs. Behind my ribcage."

 _Ribcageribcageribcage. What needs a cage? Do I need the ca-_

He catches the thoughts. Cuts them off and chokes them in his hand _._

 _No. I do not need you today._

"What does it feel like?"

He does not know why the image slips into his mind so easily, but it does. He gives voice to the thought, and it feels like something he has always known. "A snake."

"A snake?"

"Yeah. A slippery, hot and cold snake."

"Interesting." Doctor Leyden gestures to an empty chair. "Would you like to invite it to join us?"

Peter stares. "What?"

Doctor Leyden just smiles easily, as if this isn't the weirdest thing anyone has ever asked Peter to do. "I'd like us to have a talk with it."

"Uh. Okay?" Peter looks at the empty cushion and tries to imagine his anxiety. Within seconds, the snake is blinking back at him. Anxiety shifts to cock a head at Peter, meeting his gaze with abyss black eyes. Sunlight glints off his scales.

Peter studies him. The image feels like something he has noticed a million times before, but never truly understood. Never truly _seen_.

Like it's been dancing on the periphery of his consciousness for as long as he can remember. Ever-present but just out of reach.

Doctor Leyden speaks, but Peter can't bring himself to look away from the snake. "Can you ask it how old it thinks you are?"

The snake says nothing, but Peter understands. This is a language they've spoken before. This is the language of fear. It is not made up of words. "I'm a baby."

"An infant?"

"No. Not that young. He doesn't mean it literally. He's saying it like the way Mister Stark calls me 'kid.' It's… affectionate." The snake's tongue flicks out, and Peter shivers. "He doesn't want to hurt me."

"No?"

"No." Peter is certain. "He wants to protect me."

"Do you want to be protected, Peter?"

"Sometimes."

"Is he the only one who can protect you?"

Peter thinks about the way May's arm snaps out across his chest when she has to brake suddenly in the car. He thinks about that fact that Ned always offers to call the pizza place instead of Peter, because he knows that phone calls freak him out. He thinks about the dozens upon dozens of protocols Mister Stark put in his suit, each one designed just to keep him safe.

"No."

"Then why does he need to?"

Peter doesn't know. He's not sure if the snake knows, either.

* * *

"I had a conversation with my anxiety today."

Tony blinks. _Once. Twice. Zeroes. O-_

 _No._

"Yeah? It have anything useful to say?"

"I guess so. It's a snake."

"A… snake?"

"Yeah."

"You… you did this with Doctor Leyden, right? You're not cracking up on me?"

Peter laughs. His snake rests its head against the top of his fourth rib and blinks.

 _Not a zero. Not a one. A four._

"It was an exercise."

"Cool, cool. Did it help?"

He meets his mentor's eyes. For a moment, he is almost overcome by the waves of _I'msoworriedaboutyou_ and _Iwilldoanythingtoprotectyou_ and _Iloveyousofuckingmuchkid_ that are crashing behind his irises. There is so much depth. So much volcano and ocean and turbulent life.

 _Why have I never seen that before? Why did I never think about how much he'd miss me?_

The snake uncurls. He does not need to protect right now. Tony Stark has it covered.

"Yeah. Yeah, it did."

Tony smiles and Peter feels one step closer to silence.

* * *

Peter wakes up and wants to build something.

It is a strange feeling. He'd forgotten how the urge to _create_ crawled through the sinew in his wrists and itched at his hands until his fingers twitched with barely contained hunger.

He calls Happy and asks if he can come over. Within an hour, he is standing in the living room of the Tower's penthouse suite with none other than Tony Stark himself.

"Happy said you needed something?"

"Can we work in the lab?"

There is a moment where Tony's face is overcome with an emotion so powerful that it nearly makes Peter stumble backwards. When he finally speaks, his words are slightly choked. " _Yes_ , Peter. _God_ yes. Anytime, kiddo. Offer's always open, okay?"

Peter smiles. Tony's eyes light up. "Cool. Yeah."

His mentor wraps an arm around his shoulders and pulls him into the elevator. "What do you wanna work on?"

"Oh." He hadn't actually thought that far ahead. "I don't really know. I just need to make something, y'know?"

"I know." The words are genuine. After all, if there is anyone who understands this feeling, it is Tony Stark. "Want to play with the nanotech?"

Excitement lights in Peter's chest. "Can I? Really?" At Tony's nod, the teenager starts bouncing on the balls of his feet. Thoughts and ideas shoot down his spine and into his fingertips like electricity. "The nanotech is _awesome_. The way you thought of encasing it _in_ the arc reactor so that the bots can connect directly to the energy source is, like, one of the coolest things I've ever seen. How's Mark 37 coming, anyway? I haven't seen it in _ages_. Did you fix the problem with the nanobots not being able to withstand the force of the-" Peter cuts himself off when he sees Tony staring at him with a wobbly smile. "What is it?"

"Nothing." The man swallows hard, and then ruffles Peter's hair with a shaky hand. "I'm just real glad to get you back in the lab, buddy."

The elevator doors open, and Peter is too distracted by greeting Dumm-E and U to see his mentor wipe at his suspiciously wet eyes.

He never even realizes that that was the first time he'd rambled out of excitement in a long, long time.

* * *

"How are you feeling today, Peter?"

The teenager thinks about the question for a few seconds. His thoughts have been good today. Less circles, more broken oblongs. He can catch them in his hand and they only wiggle away some of the time. "Good. It's a good day."

"That's nice to hear." Doctor Leyden leans back in her seat. "Do you want to talk to your depression today?"

Peter swallows the uncertainty. These exercises may feel ridiculous, but they _helped_. "Sure."

"Do you know what it looks like?"

Just like before, the symbol comes almost instantly. "A bird. But his wings are broken, so he can't fly."

"That has to be frustrating."

"It is. He can remember the sky, but it's too far away now. He used to watch the sunsets from a really high branch but now he's stuck on the ground."

"Is he sad?"

"Yeah. He doesn't know what to do. What's the use of a bird with broken wings?" Peter watches him flutter. Watches him fall. Watches slump with defeat and tuck his head underneath a bloodied wing. "I think he's just waiting to die."

 _Life and death. Absence and fear. Zeroes and ones. Zeroes and zeroes and zeroes and-_

He snatches the snake by its jaw. When he lets go, it slinks between his ribs with a lazy hiss. The bird shudders.

When he refocuses on the moment, Doctor Leyden is spinning her pen between her fingers. "Can't his wings heal?"

"They've been broken a long time. I don't think they know how."

"Maybe they just need someone to help set the bones back in place."

"Maybe."

* * *

After therapy, Peter sits on the roof of the Tower and watches a storm roll in.

It tumbles over the horizon and swallows up the sun. Peter revels in the way the clouds make a pit form deep in his stomach. He tenses his muscles and tries to hold it there. Tries to capture the feeling.

He thinks about his AP Literature homework. _Identify the tone of Edgar Allan Poe's short story, "The Cask of Amontillado." How does the author set this tone? How does it affect the story as a whole?_

Peter thinks about the question. _The tone is suspenseful. Ominous. Foreboding._

These are the same words that Peter would use the describe the storm, and yet they are not right. This is a tone that neither Poe nor Peter could ever hope to capture. It is the moment before your foot slips on a tightrope. It is staring at the wall of a tsunami as it arcs above your head. It is standing on the ledge of your apartment building, leaning forward and leaning back. Playing tug-o-war with gravity, wondering if you'll fall.

It is the breath before you jump.

The thunder comes before the rain. It fills empty alleyways and busy main streets alike. It does not care if you are old or young or poor or rich. It does not care if you are depressed or anxious or happy or sad. It swallows you up all the same.

When the rain finally comes, it pours. The wind buffets Peter's clothes and tussles up his hair. He turns his face to the sky and tastes the water on his lips. Something in his chest releases.

He is insignificant, and it is beautiful. The storm does not care what Peter Parker does. The storm has no expectations, no opinions. It is brutal and wild and will take what it takes and leave what it leaves.

And if it decides to leave Peter Parker, who is he to argue?

Tony lets Peter have exactly ten minutes of solitude before he comes up to the roof sits beside him, seemingly unconcerned with the lashing rain and the howling wind.

"Nice weather, huh? Sun's really something today."

Peter smiles. "The thunder is loud."

"Yup. Thunder's sort of known for that, y'know."

His curls are sticking to his temples. He pushes them back with a frown.

"Do you think a storm can break a bird's wings?"

Tony watches him for a moment before setting a strong hand on the nape of Peter's neck. Despite the chill on the roof, his palm is warm. "Probably. If the storm is bad enough."

Peter closes his eyes. He listens to the thunder roll and leap above him. He imagines that it is spiraling in his stomach, filling up the emptiness. "I like storms."

"So do I. They're nice, aren't they?"

"Yeah." Peter runs a thumb along the soaked hem of his sweatshirt. "But they break things."

He can hear his mentor's shrug pull against his sodden jacket. "Broken things can be fixed. We're engineers. That's the name of our game after all, isn't it? I've built an empire on fixing things other people couldn't."

Peter feels as if he is teetering on the edge of a revelation. His next words fall out without thought. "On solving impossible problems."

"Yeah."

"If you put something broken back together, do you think it can be better than it was before?"

Tony taps the side of Peter's chin until the teenager opens his eyes and meets his gaze. His answer feels like a promise.

"Absolutely."

* * *

Peter's days begin to feel like breaths.

Some breaths are gasped through clenched teeth. They ache against his ribs and made his heart beats ricochet through his skull. These breaths make his hands tremble and his resolve waver. Stormy oceans rise and fall and crash and vipers hiss and broken birds do not fly. But the point is, after one breath comes another. Sequential, and yet independent. One bad breath does not mean a broken set of lungs.

Stormy oceans calm. Snakes can be persuaded. Broken wings can mend.

Because while some breaths may feel like his last, oxygen is still there on his next inhale. And so Peter Parker relearns the joy of gentle breaths that slip through parted lips. Breaths that quiver out in laughter. Breaths that taste like May's perfume and Ned's fabric softener and Tony's cologne. Breaths that ache in his chest at the apex but satisfy some deep, instinctual need at the close.

Peter discovers that breaths can feel like revival. They can feel like redemption. They can feel like _I am going to be okay._

He learns to love the good breaths and accept the bad ones, too. He knows that those moments of pain are only that: moments. They are temporary. Fleeting. They do not define him.

That does mean that they do not hurt. That does not mean that, on some breaths, the ache does not settle in his bones and curl around his throat and conjure thoughts that snarl with venom. But it does mean that Peter Parker learns that inhales come with exhales. That beginnings come with ends. That noise comes with silence.

And one day, he will find it.

* * *

AN: I've had a lot of people make comments about how they've gone through situations similar to Peter's, and that they wished they'd had a Tony to comfort them.

And, you see, that's exactly why I made Tony such a big part of this story. Because I didn't want this story to be solely about people struggling with mental disorders. I wanted it to be about the people around them, too.

So here's the thing: you can be a Tony. Yes, at the end of the day, recovery is something that the individual needs to work towards. It's a personal journey. Each and every step is entirely the recovering person's responsibility. But the people around them? The people that love them? You can be handholds. You can stand on the path and call out when they get lost. You can hold their hand when the light gets dark.

You can make sure that, at the very least, they never feel alone.

Thank you for going on this journey with me. This fic has been one of the most personal stories I've ever told, and every single one of you made it so, so worth it. I love you.


End file.
